


Pro Patria Mori

by NickleAndNoDime



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse
Genre: Angst, Emotional pain, Fear, He’s doing his best okay, Other, Overuse of powers, Please Don't Kill Me, Sad Charles, Sad Erik, Tired Charles, general confusion, mental strain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-18 01:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickleAndNoDime/pseuds/NickleAndNoDime
Summary: Massacred bodies strewn carelessly about, red hot blood running in rivulets down sandy walls, cities destroyed, a never-ending chant, tearing through minds like tissue paper and he is whisked away to a place where he is not himself and not quite alive either before an all encompassing black.Oh, sweet, blissful silence.If only.Just a quick movie-to-paper oneshot: my take on the scene with Apocalypse, Erik, and Charles after Cerebro is broken.





	Pro Patria Mori

When Charles resurfaces everything is a fuzzy white confusing mess and suddenly the voices crash back into his unprotected mind, an onslaught of a different kind. Mindless chatter, a neverending screech of pain, warm and innocent joy, blind terror, and five spots of pure blankness _just next to him_ … it’s different from ~~Erik's~~   Magneto’s helmet (and that scares him more than he’d like to admit). And _oh,_ how his head _hurts_ , hurts so terribly and awfully and his shields are down _he can’t remember last when that happened_ and he can hear, feel _everyone, everywhere, everything_ even though he wants to know the sweet bliss of _no-one, nowhere, nothing_ once again. It won’t happen, he knows, and he doesn’t want to deal with the darker sides of his mind anymore so he tries to distract himself from the pain of _too much everything_ and focuses on the things _minds_ that he can’t feel and tries to gain his bearings, slowly, however impossible.

Why not start with another question. It’s not unfounded either, and anything to distract, to make the voices _stop_ is welcome. “You’re… blocking me. How-?”

Charles doesn’t have to fake the confusion in his face, voice, but does his best to hide the pain the screaming chatter and emotion that envelops him _and hasn’t died down yet_. The strange mutant turns his head at Charles’ words, slowly stepping forward as he speaks.

“I can shield their minds from your power. It’s one of the many gifts I’ve acquired throughout the millennia,” another step forward before whatever he is seems to think better of it and kneels down to sit on a rock barely a metre away from Charles and he _really_ wishes he had his legs back right now because the presence—even hidden from his mind—is nigh on overwhelming and he wants it to _go away_.

_Focus._

The mutant—but how could he be millennia old? Set that aside to think on later. The mutant, if that’s what he is, continues to speak, “but, to see inside of a mind, to control it,” there’s a pause, and Charles’ jaw tightens, “That’s your gift.” The other’s eyes hold a sort of hunger that Charles knows, has seen before, but never from a position like this, so _helpless_ . He hates being helpless. Positively _despises_ it. Ironic, given his chosen temperament.

“You saw it, didn’t you. The glory of what’s to come.”

The… the _glory?_ His memory flashes back to what he saw in Cerebro before he can stop himself and he can barely stifle a shudder at the memory of the assault of visions of _massacred bodies strewn carelessly about, red hot blood running in rivulets down sandy walls, cities destroyed, a never-ending chant, tearing through minds like tissue paper and he is whisked away to a place where he is not himself and not quite alive either before an all encompassing black_.

A hidden, shuddering breath to center himself. A slight presence reminds him of Erik, _Erik_ _who lost his wife and child_ and just wanted a peaceful life but now wishes for retribution… and how he despises the strange mutant for taking his friend from him and filling Erik with a purpose that hurts others _even more_ and won’t ever make it stop _but does he really know best?_  He's bitter, Charles supposes, but mostly at himself for letting it happen. He knows it’s irrational _but what room is there for logic in bitterness?_

The telepath looks up at ~~(his…friend? ally? enemy?)~~ Erik, his impassive face and deadened eyes proving how false Charles’ hope is. He has to try, anyway. “You’re going to take part in all this killing. Destruction.” There’s distress in his voice, but there’s resignation there too and Charles wishes he could cut that resignation out in favor of the sliver of hope still clinging to life, the barest wisp lingering in the air…

Erik’s voice is impassive, “It’s all I’ve ever known,” and Charles has to work not to flinch because now the hope has faded and because it is _not_ and for Erik to say that to him of all people hurts more than he could have imagined.

“No, it isn’t,” his head is shaking, quickly, dissuading, “you’ve just forgotten.” That’s what he has to believe, the mind is a fickle place _(he would know)_ , and it does seem to be true except-

The other man’s voice is grating as the metal he controls, “No, Charles, I remember. Your way doesn’t work.”

“I’ve shown him a better way,” says the strange, ages-old mutant, but Charles is still numbly staring at Erik even though he should be used to the betrayal. He feels the last, lingering hope fading. “A better world.”

_And that world is filled with blood-soaked streets, endless destruction, and slavery._

“No, you’ve just tapped into his rage and pain, that’s all you’ve done.” He won’t dignify the second with a verbal response. It won’t help. His eyes track back to Erik, still standing tall and impassive, even without that abominable helmet he so cherishes, the one made to keep Charles out. “I’ve told you from the moment I met you there is _more_ to you, Erik.” their narrative remains the same—perhaps some comfort could come from that?—and though he is still clinging to hope it does not feel comforting, but instead…tiring. “There is _good_ in you, too.”

And isn’t that just what he always says.

“Whatever it is you think you saw in me Charles, I buried it.” _No_. “With my family.”


End file.
